


Overdone

by Darling_Jack



Series: Facing West [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Animal Death, Blood, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Medical Procedures, Physical Disability, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:34:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27292759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack
Summary: An anthology of extra scenes, leftover chapters, and alternate endings for Undone. Tags will be added as relevant!If you haven't read Undone yet, I definitely think you're better off starting there!
Series: Facing West [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980926
Comments: 102
Kudos: 71





	1. What Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Undone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25092640) by [Darling_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darling_Jack/pseuds/Darling_Jack). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had to come off. It had to come off. It had to come off.
> 
> But that didn't make it any easier.
> 
> A glimpse at what happened when the clinic doors closed. Takes place immediately after chapter 28. 
> 
> TW: Needles, mentions of medical procedures

**XXVII. I**

The doctor’s office was just as hot as the street outside. Perhaps more so; the air was stiflingly still, perfumed with strange concoctions of herbs and ointments. There was something else there, too, but Arthur didn’t dare try to place it. He loosened the collar of his shirt; sweat beaded down his neck. If he tried, he might be able to reach from one wall to the other; this sick room was different from the one he’d set Albert in. It was deeper in the building, presumably to hide the worst from any faint-of-heart customers who might wander in. It was too hot, too cramped, too much.

“You’re sure about this?”

Nathaniel almost looked surprised; perhaps he would’ve laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the question were it not for the early hour. After all, how could it _not_ help? But he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even let his amusement show on his face. Instead, he merely handed Arthur a cup of bitter coffee with a hum.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably around his sling, a frown heavy on his features. He refused to sit in the chair that took up most of the room; instead, he perched upon a smaller wooden stool. He felt decidedly worse for wear, but at least the coffee was warm.

“I— I mean… I mean it ain’t…. Ain’t gonna hurt, right?”

At that, Nathaniel did laugh. 

“Course it’s gonna hurt,” he chuckled, sipping at his own mug, “I’m cuttin your damn arm off. I’ll give you enough morphine after to keep you down for a year, but you ain’t gonna need it. And I’ll put you out ‘forehand, so you ain’t gotta worry bout that. Mostly the recovery what hurts.”

Arthur quailed as the doctor began sorting his things. Big, metal, sharp; he took to cleaning and sterilizing his instruments and each made Arthur genuinely nauseous. He wasn’t the time to shirk from such foul things usually—hell, he’d used worse himself— but perhaps it was the smothering heat or the throbbing bite of his arm, but the mere sight of those wicked tools set his nerves aflame.

“No, no. Not- I’m not— This was a mistake. I’m sorry, I’ll just— “

“If you go,” Doc said with an icy matter-of-factness, not bothering to so much as turn his head, “Can’t guarantee you’ll live long enough to make it back. Arm like that is bound to cause trouble. Seen limbs kill, in better condition.”

Arthur had too. He’d seen men die from less. He told Hosea as much all that time ago, and had forced the thought from his mind since. 

“I don’t give a shit, you ain’t comin’ near me with that-”

“Look pal, I like you,” Doc gestured with a particularly nasty looking syringe, and Arthur’s eyes stuck on the needle, “Brought me plenty of work. Tell you what, ain’t got nothin til the afternoon. You let me take it off for you, won’t even make you pay.”

An interesting proposition that caught Arthur’s attention. He’d lifted pocket change off of a few folks between here and Blackwater, barely enough to waste on amputation. Hardly enough to cover a doctor’s bill, but enough. 

As if in answer, his arm bit and tore at that moment, radiating an agonizing, sharp pain through his chest.

Strangely, he thought of Hosea.

Hosea who had put so much work, so much time, staying up for two days straight to ensure Arthur survived his injury. He’d patched Arthur up, done his damnedest to see him heal right, and for what? To be abandoned with no warning, for Arthur to run off alone and completely ignore the man’s direct orders to stay in bed until he was better? He’d be furious, if he wasn’t already. 

He thought of the gang; a one armed enforcer was no damn good to them. Half a man was worth less than no man at all, and he’d gotten a taste of life as a cripple in that month after his return and he wasn’t keen on facing such pity again. 

He thought of Dutch. He didn’t know why.

His heart thundered and rolled, his stomach lead and the color drained quick from his face. Arthur drew in a deep breath, cringing at the way it stuck in his throat and weighed in his lungs.

“Fine.”

Arthur woke up; he couldn’t say how much later. The world felt dry and uneasy, like cotton soaked in turpentine. His mouth was dry; the doctor was gone. 

He couldn’t honestly remember the doctor ever being there to begin with.

His shirt hung loosely off of his frame. A cool breeze drifted through. 

But he couldn’t button his shirt. 

He couldn’t button his shirt. He’d made do, these past weeks; Arthur had been quietly proud of his innovation, in some pitiable way. Shirt first, then sling. Getting a shirt on was one thing and required time and maneuvering, but once it was on he’d learned to pin the end of his shirt with his sling and button with his right hand. He’d managed. He’d adapted. And now? Now, his sling was gone, the arm gone with it.

Now he couldn’t button his shirt.

He stared at the limp line of buttons draped across his chest, fabric pinched tight in his trembling hand, unthinking. Stagnant. Unsure, for the first time in weeks. Try as he might to bring the edges of his shirt together, they simply slipped down his chest. No sling to pin it in place. No arm to fit the sling. No way to button his shirt. 

Alone, exhausted, and cold, Arthur cried. 

He didn’t know why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, my lovelies! ♡ Welcome to Overdone, a bunch of extras that came from Undone that I figured folk might enjoy. Let me know what you think! I've got a good few of these lined up for the coming weeks ♡♡♡ I'll take up a posting schedule again- Sundays and Thursdays, but don't worry! I've got plenty of unrelated work I'll post in between :)


	2. Her Last Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She survived torture, torment, starvation, and war. She had saved her man before, and damn it, she was going to do it again or die trying.
> 
> Odessa's final hours. Takes place around chapter 34.
> 
> TW: Animal death

The air is cold in New Austin tonight. The searing heat of the day had long since cooled, the vast desert oblivious to the chaos that had engulfed the lake. Now, though, the night had burned away, wordlessly, ambivalent to the suffering it blanketed. The pools of blood had since congealed and soaked into the earth, and were only just barely visibly by starlight; there was no moon.

The only sound to break the silence were Arthur’s muffled screams. There weren’t even crickets singing in the underbrush, surely aware that this night was too somber for their song. Their mournful quiet was well appreciated, if entirely unnoticed.

The only movement in the stillness of the early dawn was her belabored, heaving breaths, and the curls of breath that billowed from his chest.

Dutch had barely drawn a cigar, finally freed from his brief, laborious career as a surgeon. Arthur would be okay. Probably. He’d messily drawn together the edges of his wound, calling forth every drop of doctoring he’d learned from Hosea over the past years. It wasn’t enough, but Arthur had stilled. A cigar and a wash, he decided. First to still his shaking hands, then to rinse away the memory of Arthur’s brush with death.

He merely watched the heaving of her lungs, wholly awestruck. Odessa, foam crusted at the edges of her mouth, having dragged herself the short distance to the cabin. Her eyes were wild and unfocused. Her head no longer lifted. The gouged wound in her neck still leaked sluggishly, her dark coat impossibly stained darker. He’d thought she was dead, or perhaps couldn’t find it in himself to care, far too preoccupied with Arthur than he could ever be with any animal.

But she made it to the door. He hadn’t even considered that she’d survive the hour, but here she was.

Trying.

Failing

Failing because of course; she was just a horse, after all, and had thoroughly painted the desert with her blood and these, surely were her final moments.

So Dutch sat with her.

He’d never been fond of the beast. She was everything he hated in a horse. Big, ugly, and vengeful; since the day Arthur had brought her to camp, boasting about rescuing the mare from some farm to the north, Dutch had disliked her. She was a crude, angry thing with a gnarled coat and a foul temper, but she’d made it to the door.

Dutch stroked a hand down her coat, her skin cold under his touch. At first, that was all he could offer, a friendly touch to ease her along, to stop her fighting and slow her desperate scramble to find her man. There was no place for that now; there wasn’t anything either of them could do anyways.

“You did good, girl,” he murmured after a moment, voice hoarse and weak from the endless stream of similar comforts he had offered Arthur mere moments before, “Did real good. You…”

He spotted, in the brimming light of early morning, the scars on her hide from their stay with the O’Driscoll’s. She had suffered, too. She had been there with him. She got him home and nearly died for it. Something in his chest hitched.

“You did a real good job. Kept your man safe, kept him okay til I got here, my friend,” at this, her chest heaves; almost a laugh, if a horse could manage such a thing. Her breathing slows. Dutch continued, “Guess you’re right… I… I know we ain’t always gotten along, but you took care of him and I… I can’t thank you quite enough for that, I think. You been good to him, even when I wasn’t.”

Odessa stilled under his hand, watching him. Dutch continued his rhythmic motions, rubbing small circles over her hide the way he’d seen Arthur do before. He brushed his fingers through her tail, catching on a dust-caked braid.

“You know, he really loves you. Only horse he ever liked more was that Boadicea. The two of you… I didn’t like her much neither, at first. She was a good one, too. One of a kind. He ever tell you ‘bout her?”

At that, Dutch set off into a long-winded tale about Bo; about the trouble she and Arthur got into, and the time she bit holes into Dutch’s tent just before a storm. He spoke about everything, and nothing. About the places they’d gone and seen, and the horses Arthur had loved before, and how Odessa fit right in with the lot of them. He told her stories of The Count, how he was wild, too. Odessa seemed to drink in every word, her ears lazily swiveled to listen. Exhausted though he was, Dutch kept talking and petting, and cooing, and patting until the morning barely peeked over the horizon.

He finally lit his cigar and took a slow, deliberate drag.

“You did good,” Dutch said gently, watching the sun slowly rise, “Real good. But I got him now, I promise. Ain’t nothin gonna happen to your man. He’s… he’s gonna be okay, so you don’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

Odessa huffed noisily, her ear flickering away from him.

Dutch exhaled into the clear, bitter sky, the smoke snaking into the air and folding itself into the clouds overhead. He set his jaw tight and pulled the Schofield from his side.

Dutch would bury her mere feet away. He’d kick dirt over the worst of the bright red trails she’d left in her wake, and would stamp down the deep craters she’d dug along the way.

And Arthur would never know. He’d be sure of it.

Arthur would dream of fields far west.  
Of rolling wheat, and trees heavy with fruit. Of the sun rising warm against his back. He’d dream of folks long since gone; faces he hadn’t seen in decades, returned again with rosy cheeks and hearty laughs that warmed his soul. Their tight embraces, the light within their eyes, of voices so sweet they almost seemed real. He’d dream of wives, of children, of lovers and friends. Of good folk he had seen only in passing, of those he had spared a second glance and those he’d never see again.

He’d dream of Copper, and of Bo, but mostly— mostly he dreamed of Odessa, who had given him everything and asked for nothing in return.

And when again he awoke, disoriented and pained, nothing of those dreams would remain but the faint whispers of people long gone, and the ache of grief. The faces would fade. The laughter would ebb. The memories would waver until it was just him.

Just him.

Just him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .... Sorry. 
> 
> I was honestly surprised so many people were sad that Odessa died! So now I'm here to make it worse :)
> 
> See you on Sunday for the next one! ♡♡♡


	3. Predation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eager as he was to see this entire mess behind him, there was one final thing Arthur had to see to before setting off west.
> 
> [Takes place right after chapter 43, pre-epilogue]

Armadillo was quiet this morning. 

Arthur walked the dusty streets, leading Baylock behind him. He’d left plenty of towns before; plenty of people, plenty of states. The list of locales Arthur had abandoned never to see again was lengthy and storied; not that he could ever write such a list, as he’d forgotten most of those places as quickly as he’d left them. Still, Arthur had never been quite so eager to leave any of them as he was to leave Armadillo. 

A breeze swept across the road, a billow of dirt following it. Arthur sucked in a deep breath. 

He stood before the saloon once more; he and Dutch had stopped by a few days back; Dutch bought supplies, enough to stock them both for their respective journeys, while Arthur snuck off to check on Albert. 

This was a decidedly more somber occasion. 

He pushed through the entryway; the saloon was quieter than he’d seen it. There was no piano filling the air, no clatter of dishes, no raucous conversation or uproarious laughter. 

Albert sat at a table, quietly chatting with Dewey over a simple breakfast. For a moment, neither man had noticed Arthur’s entrance. 

In the next, Albert’s face lit up, a brilliant smile slipped over his face as the two of them locked eyes.

“Oh, goodness me, Arthur! I thought you’d have gone already!”  
Arthur chuckled; admittedly, something in his chest warmed at the sight of Albert damn near leaping from his chair. The man’s wound still ached, evident in the stiff way he held himself, but brightness still radiated from him. 

“Ah, I’m headed out now,” Arthur offered a fond grin, “Just figured I owed y’all a thank you ‘fore I moved along.”

He gave Dewey a curt nod; the gesture was kindly returned. 

“Well, goodness, am I glad you did! I’ll be setting off soon myself, and I was worried you might have changed your mind about that offer. It’s still on the table, you know, if you’d like to come along with me. Your company would be well appreciated, and you’d be properly compensated.”

At this, Arthur laughed. 

“No, no,” he shook his head, “I… thank you for the offer, Albert. But I think I’d best hit the wind by my lonesome. Got a few things need doin’ ‘fore I can settle down into anything.”

“I… I understand. I wish you well, Arthur Morgan.”

“You too, Al. And hey, never know; could be we run into each other sooner or later, country ain’t all that big, and not too many fools out there throwing themselves in front of wolves.” 

“I suppose,” Albert laid a hand upon his shoulder, “Thank you, Arthur. For everything. I owe you my life.” 

They chatted for a few more moments, speaking of plans and locations, of destinations and landmarks, but soon enough Arthur was back on the trail, alone, the sun at his back. Baylock shifted beneath him, happy to stretch his legs on the open road. There was a pit in Arthur’s stomach; perhaps he should have taken Albert’s offer, accepted the stability where he could get it, that little bit of normalcy that is only rarely afforded to men of his nature.

But he knew there was no place for him at Albert’s side. His spirit cried for the great, wide west and the lonesome expanses he’d explored as a boy. With nowhere to go, and all the time into the world to get there, Arthur set off. 

But he did see Albert again.

Arthur was in Cheyenne, years later, a good deal more tired and a good deal older, but still disillusioned with the realities of civilization. He wouldn’t have wandered so close to society if offered the chance, but his distaste for cities was immediately washed away when he caught sight of it.

A gallery, unnoticeable and easily passed by, on the east side of town. He almost walked right by, had he not caught sight of the sign in the window.

‘Two weeks only!’ it read, the letters large and obnoxiously bright, Great Predators of America! Witness the worst of the country’s wildlife before they are gone for good!’

Arthur furrowed his brows; those words stirred memories in his stomach. 

He hitched Baylock outside, and pushed in the front door.

The gallery was buzzing; perhaps half a dozen people meandering about, gawking at the photos on the wall. Arthur joined their number quietly, admiring the lovingly captured images of owls, bears, snakes, and more. There had to have been thirty photographs, each with a carefully written inscription detailing the creature in question. Arthur took the time to read each one.

Eagles; he could vaguely recognize the rocky terrain, though he couldn’t quite place where from. He gawked at pictures of alligators, and studied a herd of wild horses, appreciating the care taken to keep distance from the easily spooked animals. 

A bobcat; he knew this one well. 

Wolves. The same photograph he kept tucked into the lining of his satchel. It went with him everywhere without fail and had, over the years, become one of his more beloved possessions. A reminder of who he was, and who he used to be.

And then him.

Arthur stared at himself, the image staring right back. Slightly more whole than he was these days, but him nevertheless. He remembered Albert snapping the picture, but had never considered that the man would hang it.

‘The American outlaw,’ the inscription read, ‘Though considered by many to be dangerous and crude, this man saved my life more times than I can count. He is by no means a monster, though often treated as such, and in fact proved to be a very dear friend. Perhaps we truly are no different than the beasts we hunt?’

He stared at those words for a moment. Folks shifted and wove around him, but Arthur stayed firmly in place. He hardly even flinched when a gentle hand fell on his shoulder.

“Arthur?”

Without him realizing it, a gooey grin spread across Arthur’s features. There stood Albert Mason: grayer, older, and slightly less well-kept, but still warm. Still friendly. Still Albert.

“If it ain’t mister Mason!” Arthur roared, smile wide, “How the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been well, sir! My goodness, it’s been so long! Why, I haven’t seen you since Armadillo! You look well, I’m surprised to see you, my dear friend!”

“Can’t believe you’re still kickin’, Al! Figured you woulda gotten ate by now!”

Albert laughed; a sound Arthur had sorely missed. 

“I’m equally as shocked as you, to be quite honest. Luckily, I’ve had a little help!”

Albert motioned to a man; though scruffy and bearded, Arthur quickly came to recognize him as well. 

“Oh, uh, you remember Dewey, don’t you?”

Dewey, his mind supplied, the owner of the saloon in Armadillo. Ex-owner, Arthur presumed, seeing how rugged the man had grown. The pair stood close; Albert wove his arm around Dewey’s in an almost subconscious gesture.

Arthur could have had that, he realized bitterly. If he had accepted that offer those long years ago, perhaps he might have been the one protectively clutched in Albert’s grasp. How different his life would have been if he had only said yes. 

But strangely, where once he surely would have suffered the sting of envy, instead bloomed a warm happiness. A desire to see his dear friend happy and fulfilled. 

“Sure I do!” Arthur beamed, “Good to see you again, pal!”

“Likewise.”

“Dewey here has been keeping me out of harm's way, well, as best anyone could.”

They chatted for the better part of an hour, detailing their journeys and the hardships they’d faced along the way. Arthur told Albert about the time a coyote stole his hat while he slept, and he tracked the damn thing for two days straight to find it, only for his beloved hat to have become a plaything for pups. As he reminisced, he pointed out the holes left by needle-sharp milk teeth. Albert replied with a rousing tale of the time they set off after a family of badgers and Dewey ended up waist-deep in the muck. 

Before they knew it, the sun had gone down. Arthur tipped his hat, bidding both men well, and once again took to the street, Baylock in hand, filled to burst with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years.

“Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be back an hour ago!” Dutch’s voice bit through the chilly air. Arthur could hear the smile on his lips.

“You look happy,” Hosea elbowed him playfully, “Have a good time?”

“Met up with an old friend,” Arthur admitted, “Just catching up.”

Arthur would never come across Albert, nor his photographs, again. He’d hear whispers, every once in a while, about a strange photographer and his contributions to conservation- usually in the form of snide remarks or snippy comments- but their paths didn’t cross again.

Arthur was okay, though, and Albert was too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of post-story pre-epilogue bits! I figured it just wasn't right for Arthur to leave Albert without even saying goodbye! ♡♡♡♡ 
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for your kind words ♡ See you on Thursday, my dears! ♡


	4. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With everything slipping through his fingers, Dutch comes up with one final plan. Hopefully it's a good one.
> 
> [Takes place between chapter 43 and the epilogue!]

Leaving had been hard. Weeks of an agonizing hunt for the man he had wronged, sleepless nights spent drowning in worry, long days of travelling and bickering, of every possible outcome playing over and over in his head, only to return home empty handed. Alone. 

Despite the trek back north, left to stew in his own thoughts, left to wonder how, exactly, he was supposed to tell everyone what had happened, he never considered that he might not have to. 

They were gone well before Dutch returned. 

He hadn’t even stopped. Clemens Point wasn’t even _that_ far; not really. Without others to slow him down, with The Count beneath him, Dutch reached Lemoyne in less than a week. Tired, worn, exhausted, emotionally wrung dry like a sopping rag, but home nevertheless. 

And Clemens was empty. 

Where once sat a camp, alive with folk and buzzing with activity now was an empty lot, littered with refuse and forgotten, merely a faint remembrance of what once used to be there. To the casual observer, one might think the place had been abandoned for years. Yet he could see the hoof marks that were dug into the soil, punctuated with wagon tracks worn away by weather and time.There was no gang though. No note. No sign as to where they might have gone. Just Hosea, sitting there amongst the debris, waiting. Watching. Dutch hadn’t even noticed him.

They hadn’t even been gone that long. That thought played over in his head. They hadn’t been gone that long. He tried, desperately, fruitlessly, to calm his thoughts, to cease the riotous roar in his skull demanding to know, what, exactly, had happened. What had gone wrong? Because clearly it had been something; clearly they wouldn’t have just left.

Dutch stood among the broken remnants of his camp, equally as broken. Everything was gone. 

Everything.

“They left, Dutch.”

As if he hadn’t figured that out for himself. As if the emptiness of what had once been their camp weren't enough proof. As if the debris left wordlessly behind, almost in monument to his failings weren't enough. 

Perhaps it wasn't, as those words still sat, thick and foreign, at the very front of his mind.

“They… left,” Dutch echoed, empty. Unbelieving. 

They left. 

They…. Left?

Rage burned through him, furious and unbridled, engulfing his exhaustion and casting aside the loneliness that had taken residence in his gut. Dutch let out a furious roar, quaking with anger. 

But Hosea’s hold on him never wavered, the gentle grasp he had laid on Dutch's shoulder didn't loosen as he set about telling him all what had transpired. Turns out that he’d been the second to realize what had happened; he and John had made it to Clemens only to find an angry Bill camped in the open field, raging about being left, shouting about cowards and traitors and backstabbers. Hosea had sent them on, had taken his place, anticipating Dutch’s return.

“John and Bill went to find them; my guess is they went not long after we did. Susan left a letter, but… Dutch I think maybe… Maybe it’s time we let them go.”

“Let them go?” Dutch hissed, “Let them _go?_ After all we’ve done for them? Who the fuck do they think they are, what if Arthur had been— ”

“They’re scared, Dutch!” Hosea barked, “They’re tired of being hunted, they got every damn right to leave!”

And Hosea was right. They were scared, and they were gone. 

Dutch had tracked them down; he’d tracked Susan down, at least, intending to lay into her until she answered the door of their room at the inn with a shotgun in hand. 

Instead, he apologized. He explained, in great detail, the plan. The _last_ plan. 

Of the gang, he only persuaded Charles, John, and Sadie to his cause, Hosea having decided to stay behind with the girls. But the four of them were all he needed. With the Pinkertons gone, and the bounty hunters scattered, getting into Blackwater, getting the money had been a cinch. Quicker than he had expected. 

Holding that money in his hand once more, he roiled with guilt, sorrow, and grief. He couldn’t quite place why. Everything, _every fucking thing_ , had been because of this money. After all this time, he finally had this money. And this money had ruined _everything_. This money had—

Wordlessly, he handed a stack of bills to Sadie, Charles, and John, and sent them running. _Anywhere,_ he’d commanded, past the knot in his throat, _anywhere but here._

Over the next months, he’d hand a similar amount to others. Some were easy to find, others had done well in covering their tracks and had started building a new life. A few opted to help, tagging along and doing their part to see the ill-gotten spoils distributed. Not a gang, this time, but rather a group of vagabonds traversing the country. 

By the time he had nearly finished, the Van der Linde Gang were but a haunting memory, a folk tale whispered between those who had witnessed their cruelty and wondered after their fate. Bounty posters faded, torn down in favor of newer threats, more urgent crimes. Like those bounty posters, they had faded, but had not gone. It wasn’t as though this newfound freedom was unwelcome, it was simply unfamiliar. 

Dutch used it to continue his seeking; to keep moving, using every minute of three long years to find the misplaced members of a gang long since divided and give to them one final take. An apology, maybe, bittersweet but heartfelt nonetheless. With each, the money divided, and the whole business in Blackwater saw its end. 

Until there was one person left. The beginning and the end; there was a certain measure of poetry to it, if Dutch were so inclined to think on such things. One final share, one that Dutch was hesitant to part with. 

At the end of those three long years, Dutch stood at the door of an inn. Years of searching, of worrying, all leading him here. There was an element of nostalgia to the whole undertaking; again tracking a man who wasn’t keen on being found, all too late. Cash in hand, heart in his throat, and a plea heavy on his tongue, one he had practiced time and time again. His chest thundered, mind racing with fears and worries. Hosea’s reassurances did little to soothe the torrential flood of anxiety. 

He took a deep, steadying breath.

And he knocked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dutch finally proves he's less of an idiot than he was before. Call that character development! 
> 
> We're just about halfway through with these little extras now! Hopefully you all enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them ♡ 
> 
> Love you all my dearests! I'll see you on Sunday! ♡♡♡


	5. Gone West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After twenty-odd years together and three years apart, neither of them knew how this reunion would go. 
> 
> But damn it, they were both willing to try. 
> 
> [Takes place pre-epilogue!]

He liked this town.

Well, he liked it well enough. As much as he liked any town. Society, it seems, had long since outgrown him, and Arthur honestly didn’t mind. 

Gran Oro was just a small spit of civilization, a mining town out in the midst of nowhere. Far south, almost near the Mexican border, but still west. Land stretching as far as the eye could see, washed out by the setting of the sun. The heat disappearing with it, the cool of the night greeting him. Perhaps strikingly similar to the landscape of New Austin, but maybe that was okay.

These days, there wasn’t much nuance to his life. Arthur stopped when he was tired, moved on when he was rested. He followed the trail, weaving through places he’d known long ago, but more often than not he found himself drifting. Unbridled, unhindered. Each and every morning waking early to the rising sun, and then chasing whatever notion caught his fancy, satiating a hunger to see what secrets the world held. Some places he stayed for months; others mere hours. He met plenty of folk on the way. Nice people. Some he played cards with. Some he killed—sometimes both; he didn't take to cheaters all that well. Others he shared drinks with. Some he told stories to— never anything much, never anything that would give him away. Never gave a name, just Arthur. 

Because that’s all he was. Arthur. A traveler. A wanderer. A person. A strange thing to say, after all these years. But it got easier to say as time went by. He simply was, existing as he saw fit, unbeholden to any man. 

It was strange. For so long he had followed a list. He had held obligations. _Duties._ And now... now there was just him. No list. No duties. 

It was lonely at times. Lonely, but lovely. A beauty there he couldn't quite describe that overshadowed the longing. A feeling he wasn't quite familiar with. He was content.

The inn at Gran Oro was small and overly familiar, as all inns were. These days they all looked and smelled and felt the same, from the innkeeper’s too-wide smile and dark-rimmed eyes, to the creak of the wood floors; even the bedding all seemed the same, all scratchy and unfamiliar and smelling vaguely of dust. He’d been here for over a week, and intended to stay perhaps a week more. There was plenty to see; folk to help, a ranch nearby with horses to tend, were he in need of quick cash, and a fence he’d heard of lurking somewhere nearby. Arthur avoided crime as best he could these days, but no man was without fault. For the most part, though, he had collected treasures he’d come across while traveling and needed a place to sell them without raising suspicion. 

Arthur had barely kicked off his boots when there was a knock at the door. 

Immediately his hand was on his revolver, fingers twitching and primed. Though he’d left the gang, he still found his fair share of trouble out west, and only the worst kind of trouble knocked. 

He drew a deep breath, carefully pulling the door open.

And there he was. 

Dutch.

Older, grayer, sadder, but Dutch. 

Silence stood heavy between them. For a moment that's all there was; that silence, and the deluge of emotions that they both drowned in. Neither could tell exactly what emotions those might be, but whatever they were, the world around them was washed away. 

It was as if they had never left the cabin on the lake. 

That day when they parted ways, Arthur remembered it well. He’d never been good with endings; certainly, he equally never expected the past twenty years to end quite like it had. On that day, they’d both woken well before the sun. Well before they’d meant to, even, eager and dreading in equal measure. 

The day began quietly. Somber. Neither man was willing to address what they both knew was looming. Dutch set about making coffee, perhaps more to distract himself than anything else. 

“Y’know you don’t have to go back,” Arthur spoke up suddenly, fracturing the fragile silence between them, “We could… I mean, if you wanted. Could grab Hosea and go, start something new for ourselves, live free ‘fore the law catches up.”

Dutch’s hands stilled over the coffee pot. His shoulders tensed, but Arthur couldn’t see his face. 

He didn’t answer. Arthur supposed he didn’t have to. 

“Right…” he murmured, and Dutch poured him a mug, "Just... think about it."

“I ever tell you ‘bout the time I accidentally poisoned Hosea’s coffee?”

Slowly that silence left them; both then and now. Then, all those years ago, it was replaced with rousing stories and raucous laughter.

Now though, it was filled with the whimpered greeting of a broken man.

“Been a while,” Dutch said with a shaky smile, “You uh… You look well.”

He didn’t. Arthur knew he didn’t. The road was not kind, and had weathered him greatly. He assumed the same had happened to Dutch. Try as he might, Arthur couldn’t find a reply, each attempt dying on his tongue.

“You’re a hard man to find,” Dutch added, awkwardly.

“What’re you—“

Dutch thrust a wad of cash out, pressing it into Arthur’s hand, unable to make eye contact. He held it there, his hands covering Arthur’s.

“It’s your take. From Blackwater. Been making sure everyone got what they’re owed.”

Arthur blinked owlishly, “You… followed me all the way out here just to give this to me?”

Money.

It was always about money. 

Money was what took them to Blackwater. What had led them to Valentine, to Rhodes...and now money had brought the man back here. Not him...just money. 

He watched as Dutch swallowed thick, the torrential floodwaters of emotion now an irritating buzz.

“I… Maybe. I have a proposition. Can I… You wanna get a drink?”

He said yes before he could even think it through. Honestly though, he would’ve said yes even if he _had_ thought about it. Even if it wasn’t about the money, or even if that’s all it was, he would’ve said yes because, God, he missed him. He missed Dutch, every day these past years; missed Hosea, and John, and the gang. But Dutch? Arthur missed him more than he thought possible.

Whether he was ready to hear whatever Dutch had to say, that was another matter altogether. Whether this was the Dutch he had left, or the Dutch he had known, it was impossible to tell. It had been years, after all, since they last saw one another. Too much to talk about, and yet nothing to say. Lord only knows who, exactly, the man had become.

But they went anyways. Dutch and Arthur sat at the bar; Hosea and the rest of the stragglers hung around outside, setting about various errands, trying to alleviate some of the tension that seemed to engulf Gran Oro.

Dutch explanation came awkward and poorly practiced, as though he hadn’t expected to get quite as far as he did.. He detailed the separation of the gang; those who came along, and those who stayed behind. He told Arthur of John and his family heading North, of Bill and Javier, how angry they had been in the end. He described their journey, and Arthur matched his tales with ease, and in that moment the past years melted away.

Finally, Dutch took a breath.

“We’re headed out to California, if you want to come. Got a ranch we’re buying— Hosea and me, though I think there’s a few other folks lookin’ to settle there too,” he unfolded the ad from his pocket, detailing the ranch in all its glory, “Ain’t much but…. it’s a good place. Quiet. If you’re willing to chip in, we could build a few more houses, let you have your own place on the land, if you want. Do it all as equals.”

“I guess that depends...” Arthur said, his cold glare bearing down on Dutch. The man writhed under the pressure, gripping his drink tight. Arthur took a sip of his, still bearing down on Dutch with a stony gaze, “… We gonna have horses?”

Dutch blinked owlishly, “Horses?”

“Horses.”

A smile spread across Dutch’s face. He let out a hearty guffaw and slapped Arthur’s shoulder, “As many as you want. Hell, I’ll make sure you get a horse in every color! Chickens, too, and cows, and big shady trees for us to read under. Maybe, assumin’ Hosea don’t throw a fit, we could see about a dog or two. So, what do you say? Are you with me?”

“Always, Dutch.”

He had enjoyed his time on his own. He liked having nothing to do. Nowhere to be, no one to save. But he liked having a place more. A family. Something to come home to- it was like Hamish had said, all those years ago. 

He sure didn't need it. 

But it was nice to have. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Em for helping me get this one done!!! I'm sick as a dog today, so if y'all catch any mistakes, well... that's our little secret ♡
> 
> See you on Thursday my lovelies!!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡


	6. Building Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite John's attempts to the contrary, there's just no getting rid of family.
> 
> Or, Arthur learns that the baby of the family will always be the baby, no matter how strange the family.

If there were a place on earth more desolate and dismal than Great Plains, West Elizabeth, Arthur had yet to see it. He wiped the sweat from his brow, a fruitless gesture considering the rivulets that ran down the rest of his body. Charles clapped a hand on his shoulder, breathless and panting himself, but reassuring nevertheless. 

They quietly admired the work they had done; John still hammered away at the foundation, a look of determination stuck on his face. They’d been working for damn near a week at this point; their muscles were sore and hand blistered, but between the three of them they’d gotten a good start on John’s ranch house. 

And it  _ was  _ only the three of them. Uncle made only the barest attempts at helping, handing them tools or nails on occasion, usually slinking off to nap when the work got difficult. 

Arthur’s lip curled into a sneer.

_ “You fellers comfortable?” _

Hosea and Dutch, on the other hand, lounged in the shade, books in hand, chatting the hours away while Charles, John, and Arthur damn near broke their backs putting the house together. Neither man had lifted a finger.

“Yes, actually! And quite a view,” Dutch laughed. Hosea elbowed him with a barely concealed grin. 

“Too old for a little manual labor?” Arthur rolled his eyes, returning to his work. 

“Someone has to supervise you fools, make sure you don’t build the damn thing upside down!” Hosea chuckled, turning the page in his book, the instructions for the house spread out on a crate behind him, largely forgotten.

They’d ended up back in West Elizabeth by coincidence; their travels had taken them into Montana in the weeks prior, only for Hosea to storm into their camp with a newspaper in hand, detailing the crimes of one John Marston, wanted for questioning in the deaths of several men to the north. 

Arthur hadn’t wanted to go. John was a grown man; it was his choice to go off on his own those years ago when the gang separated. Not that he could blame him, but they dissolved with the expression implication that they’d leave behind their life of crime. 

“That fool got himself in the papers, he can get himself out,” Arthur had grumbled.

His complaints, of course, were ignored.

John wasn’t even that hard to find; they’d tracked him down with little issue, following whispers of a ‘JM’ causing problems in West Elizabeth. Hosea had given the man an earful, a reiteration of every lesson they’d taught those long years together, punctuated with angry chastising. 

John had already wasted his share of the Blackwater money chasing gold in the Yukon. He’d chased off his wife and child, and bought a ranch full of rocks in the middle of fucking nowhere. Then he had the gall to tell Dutch and Hosea that he was ‘handling things fine’ when they offered help. He tried to send them off, annoyed that they stuck around, but Hosea and Dutch were determined to pull him out of the fire once more.

And somehow, Arthur got roped into building the brat a goddamned house. 

They ended up staying after that, though. Long enough to see Abigail and Jack return. Long enough to see them married, but no longer than that. 

That evening, Arthur and John shared a drink, sat up on the cliff overlooking Beecher’s Hope, looking over everything they had built in silence while the rest partied and laughed around a campfire.

“Did good, kid,” Arthur had mumbled after a moment, breaking the silence. John didn’t reply with more than a hum.

The next morning, Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur left again. 

“You… Y’all know you can stay, right? Got plenty of room,” John tried and failed to keep the plea out of his tone.

“Ah, Hosea gets all itchy if we stay in one place too long,” Arthur replied with a grin, “Best we move along.”

“Are we… Are you…”

John couldn’t find the words he was searching for; perhaps he didn’t have to. 

Arthur admired Beecher’s hope; the crops they’d planted, the horses in the paddock, the house, the barn standing sturdy among it all. His sweat had soaked into those beams, his blood stained the foundation, and yet…

With a fond smile, Arthur pulled the hat from his head and placed it roughly atop John’s. He drew in a deep breath, hand still resting atop John’s head. 

“You got somethin’ good here, brother. Don’t waste it.”

Charles and Sadie would leave in their own time, and before anyone knew it, Beecher’s Hope would be emptier and quieter than it ever had before. 

John hated it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always thought Arthur would like to have helped build Beechers. Well, he'd complain about it the whole time, but you know he'd enjoy it ♡♡♡
> 
> Family sticks together, and sometimes family is you, your common law wife, your son, your dad, your other dad, your grouchy one-armed older brother, a bareknuckle beefcake, a blonde bounty hunting badass, your uncle, and a dog.
> 
> See you all on Sunday, lovelies!!!! ♡♡♡ Rest well!


	7. Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Dutch start getting antsy to get back on the road. They keep themselves entertained, despite the mountain of chores John has left for them.

He found Arthur asleep, leaning against the fence he’d gone out to fix, the afternoon sun gleaming off of his already golden hair. 

For a few moments, he just watched Arthur’s chest rise and fall slowly; watched Baylock and The Count graze in the paddock with the other horses at Beecher’s Hope. Took in a deep breath of the barely-warmed air, sweetened by fresh hay and the peach trees blooming nearby. 

He had fully intended to snatch the hat from his head, but to Dutch’s amusement, without so much as cracking an eye, Arthur hummed, “You lost your touch, I heard you comin’ a mile away.”

“This some new fence-mending technique I ain’t heard about?” Dutch leaned against the fence, watching him. 

“Sure is. Maybe you’d’ve learned it if you ever got off your ass and helped out.”

“Don’t be bitter, Arthur. It’s unbecoming.”

“You calling me ugly?”

“Sure am.”

“If I wanted to fix fences, I’d’ve stayed at our damn place. Wouldn’t have come all the way out here, that’s for sure. ”

“Charming as it may be, nobody ever said domestic life was any measure of exciting. I have no idea how John manages,” Dutch grumbled, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

“He don’t, he got us fools to do it for him. What the hell are you doing here anyhow? Ain’t you got things need doing? Don’t tell me, you’re bored?”

“Dreadfully,” Dutch groaned, “I’m surprised _you_ haven’t gone stir crazy already.”

“With all the shit Marston keeps piling on me, I ain’t got time to go anywhere. Barely have time to nap- 'Sides we've only been here three months, how are you already losing it?”

He was content to help around the ranch where possible, enjoying the bit of stability farm life offered, even if only for a while. Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur taken to the trail again, all unsettled by their brief attempts at civilian life, and had been visiting the gang as they could. Each of them had been eager to finally visit John after years apart, though the novelty of farm life had worn off rather quickly. Hosea had taken a day trip with the Marstons into Blackwater to see some traveling show he’d been raving about, and Sadie had roped Charles into taking her hunting, leaving the ranch in the less-than-capable hands of Arthur and Dutch. 

Dutch, on the other hand, was less content. 

“Let’s go shooting,” Dutch beamed, still staring down at Arthur with almost childish glee. 

“We’re meant to be ranching, Dutch. Takin’ care of the place. Not shooting it to hell..”

“If you can take a nap without the house going down in flames, I’m sure we can have ten minutes to ourselves. Unless… you’re scared. Did big bad Morgan lose his edge?”

Arthur let out a sigh, trying to hide the grin that snuck onto his face.

“All right, fine. If you’re going to cry about it.”

“A friendly competition then, Arthur. Or rather, a chance for me to see if the student has yet surpassed the master.”

“Okay, old man. You’re on.”

Despite his bravado, Arthur was entirely unsure if he could outshoot Dutch. The last time they’d done something like this, Dutch beat him soundly— the loss was so quick and great that Dutch didn’t even brag about his win, he simply rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and complimented his attempt. 

“Let’s get a move on then, cowboy!” Dutch laughed, slapping Arthur’s ass playfully.

Arthur returned the favor by shoving the man, sending Dutch back a few steps with that same mischievous grin smattered across his face. 

He wasn’t going to go down without a fight. 

They set up bottles along the fence line, the colored glass casting green and blue reflections onto the rocks. 

Arthur handed Dutch the spare cattleman he kept in his off-hand holster; Dutch didn’t keep his guns on him too often these days. 

“We take turns,” Dutch said, checking over the gun and loading it, “If one of us can’t keep up, they lose. Sound fair?”

“Sure.” Arthur deftly checked over his own weapon, his trusty Schofield. Though they hardly saw much use these days, he kept his little arsenal impeccably clean and oiled. Habit, more than anything. 

Dutch set up two bottles on the fenceposts, backing away about thirty feet. A stupidly easy shot, Arthur thought, until Dutch shot the neck of the bottle clean off, leaving the body intact, without a single crack.

Arthur rolled his eyes and did the same, pointedly staring at Dutch while he did. He spun his gun around his fingers and returned it to his holster. 

“A fine warm up.”

“How’s this?” Arthur held a bottle between his fingers, tossing it up into the air and drew his weapon in one clean motion, shooting it well before it came back down.

Dutch hummed. 

“Not bad.”

And yet, he effortlessly repeated the act, throwing his bottle a little higher.

So it went. Each time, more precarious, each trick a little harder, and yet neither showed signs of failing. It came to the point where Dutch, frustrated by the impending stalemate, grabbed a six bottles and a six pebbles. He scattered the bottles, placing a rock atop each. 

“Break glass and you lose. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Fine by me. You go on— Age before beauty.”

Dutch huffed.

“Watch closely, darlin,” Dutch shot him a wink.

Arthur groaned, shaking his head despite the blush that rose in his cheeks, “Just go on already.”

Dutch took a moment to line up his first shot, but the others were quick and seamless. One, two, he knew he only had six rounds, only six chances to prove he was still the better gunslinger, three, four, and sure, he set the challenge himself but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t challenging— he hoped Arthur couldn’t see him sweat— five, shit.

The sixth bullet went wide, cracking into the bottle the fifth stone was sitting on. 

Dutch roared in frustration, albeit a little put on for entertainment's sake, angrily holstering the gun. 

Arthur, who was stifling his laughter, caught him around the waist with his arm. 

“You had a good run, ain’t nothin to be mad about.”

“Shut it, Arthur. I doubt you’ll get even one,” he smiled, despite the sourness of his tone. 

Their faces were so close he could feel Dutch’s breath hot on his cheeks. 

Arthur grinned, “Guess we’ll see about that.”

Just the same as Dutch, though a little quicker. One, two, three, he barely looked at the fourth, the fifth was dead to his left, and six— Arthur swung the gun, aiming just over Dutch’s shoulder.

Which bothered Dutch to no end. 

“Don’t patronize me, Arthur—“ Dutch hissed, only to be met with a single finger raised in his direction. 

_Wait_ , it said, and Dutch would’ve strangled him for it had he not followed Arthur’s gaze to a deer standing a ways off, unperturbed by the gunplay. 

“Dinner”, Arthur said simply, _teasingly,_ as he set his aim directly between the deer’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who in their right mind would leave *these* two on their own on a ranch... I guess John is just lucky they didn't burn the place down. 
> 
> I'm so thrilled you all have been vibing so far!!!! I'll see you on Thursday my darlings! ♡♡♡♡


	8. Red Dead Veteran: I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Micah had come to O'Creagh's run with something else in mind entirely. Part 1.
> 
> TW: Major Character Death 
> 
> An alternate way Undone might have ended. Takes place in chapter 12.

Hamish had been fiddling with his leg, trying to adjust the straps and buckles so it didn’t feel quite as loose and worn as it was. His replacement couldn't be completed quick enough; with the way the prosthetic rubbed and bit, he was left with swaths of irritated red skin that grew only worse by the day. Granted, he didn't have too much time to mind it; not with all that had happened as of late. 

Arthur was out; this was true more often than not, it seems the boy was unused to life within four walls. It didn’t bother him too much, though. Like a barn cat, Arthur stayed close enough to chase away worry, and more than pulled his weight. Even with his injury, Arthur still set to chores with that look of grim determination of his. It bothered Hamish to no end that the boy worked himself to the bone, even while hurt so terribly. He said nothing of it, of course, and sure enough Arthur slowly realized there wasn't all that much work to be done. 

He’d finally settled into the relaxed sort of life Hamish led, and it showed. The man was still rife with uncertainty and fear, but his nightmares had lessened and the bruises he’d gathered in Valentine had dimmed to an ugly yellow. He’d regained some of the color in his cheeks, and started laughing and joking more. Arthur was healing, in more ways than one, and Hamish couldn’t be more proud. 

And then _he_ showed up.

He was only a voice at first; Hamish heard Buell startle, not necessarily enough to grab his attention as he was soothed by Arthur fairly quickly, but soon Odessa joined in the racket, and then came _his_ voice. Cold, calculated, and speaking with the cadence of a recitation. If Hamish tried hard enough, he could just barely make out the words; that didn’t matter though. What mattered was Arthur, who shouted at the intruder. What mattered was the waver in his voice. The tightness in his tone.

Hamish strapped his leg on tight and leapt to his feet, ignoring the pinch of the leather. He grabbed his shotgun and loaded it.

And was startled by a gunshot before he could snap it shut.

Hamish’s heart sank. The horses squealed, but otherwise a thick, enveloping silence had consumed O’Creagh’s Run. He kicked down the door. A man, short and stocky with stringy blonde hair and piercing, dead eyes hauled himself onto a pitch-black horse with a ghastly white face.

Arthur lay sprawled out on the ground. Blood pooled around him.

Too much blood.

That man, that _thing,_ split his face into a crooked grin.

“Sorry about the mess, partner.” 

Hamish raised his shotgun and fired, his ears ringing, heart still. The man was gone.

And so was Arthur.

He sucked in a shallow, rattling breath. Hamish fell to his side, hands fluttering over Arthur nervously, unsure, and far, far too late. 

“No, no, no,” he whimpered, cupping Arthur’s head in his hands, “Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…” 

Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on the sky, unseeing, lips parted and dotted with his own blood. Weak, fragile, frail, pallid; Hamish’s hands trembled. God damn it. God _fucking_ damn it. 

He hugged Arthur close, mumbling apologies all the while, as though if he apologies alone could fill the neat little hole punched through Arthur’s forehead. They sat like that until the sun had set and a chill had settled in from the mountains. Darkness fell over O’Creagh’s Run, and only Hamish remained.

He buried Arthur in the mountains beneath a gnarled pine. 

It was a beautiful little spot; they spent an afternoon there, once, watching a gorgeous golden stag nibble at the grass. He marked it, for now, with a simple cross; later, when his hands had stopped shaking and he washed the blood out from under his nails, he’d take the time to carve something more intricate. Something worthy of the man it marked. Hamish took the time to nestle bluebells around the base. It was the least he could do. 

God damn it. 

Odessa tossed her head; pawed at the ground, snorted and stomped and bit. Unsettled, understandably, and brimming with a heavy, potent sorrow. Hamish pressed his forehead against her nose, tears soaking into her soft coat. 

“I got you, Darlin’,” he whispered, “I got you.” 

But there would be time for mourning later. Already the sun was burning red, hanging low on the horizon.

And he had work to do.

There wasn’t much he knew about Arthur; the man had only just opened up about his life beyond short quips and small stories. There were some things he wished they’d talked about. Arthur’s family, his childhood, whether he had someone his body should have been returned to...

And there were things Arthur didn’t need to say, but did anyways. Hamish knew he was an outlaw before Arthur had said a word about it. He’d pieced it together fairly quick— between the injuries he bore and the veritable arsenal of weaponry he kept on his person, Hamish knew Arthur was a little more dangerous than he let on. It wasn’t until Hamish had visited Valentine all those weeks ago to find the place devastated by a recent shoot-out that he really pieced it together; his Arthur was Arthur Morgan, ruthless enforcer of the deadly Van der Linde gang. 

Not that it mattered. He was still Arthur. Still a damn fine companion and a crack shot, always ready with a story or a hearty laugh to warm the air.

So Hamish, chest heavy and tight, resolved to do what the world hadn’t been able to: He was going to find the Van der Linde gang and fucking _destroy_ it. 

First, though?

_First, he was going to hunt that loathsome, rat-faced, coward and making him regret ever so much as laying eyes on O’Creagh’s Run._

Hamish had tacked up Buell and Odessa both. He left most of Arthur’s things locked in a chest inside his homestead, unsure what he would do with them but determined to keep them nonetheless. He brought his hat, though, stowed in Odessa’s saddlebag after a lingering glance at the second little hole punched through the leather, right next to the first. He brought Arthur’s prized Litchfield, too. He took that gun on every damn hunt, treated it like it was made of solid gold. Hamish slung it across his shoulder. 

Odessa’s head hung low. He offered her a peppermint, but she wouldn’t so much as sniff at the sweet. He couldn’t blame her; he hadn’t eaten either. Even Buell had been sobered, not so much as tossing his head once during their long, quiet ride up the mountain. 

With a final, mournful hand laid upon Arthur’s grave, Hamish set off for Valentine. 

He ended up in Rhodes.

The sheriff in Valentine had damn near laughed in his face— likely would have, if not for the weight of grief so heavy on Hamish’s features.

“Whatever they done to you, let it go,” he’d warned, “Trying to bag a Van der Linde is a death sentence.”

Regardless, after another dire warning, Sheriff Malloy told him about an abandoned camp that, supposedly, was the last known location of the Van der Linde gang, not far south of Valentine. The man had shuddered to think of such vile men living so close to town. Hamish had no trouble finding the place, and less still in following the deep tracks left by a caravan of wagon wheels dragging through the mud. 

South, then, towards a small town he'd only heard of in passing. Which made sense- They’d need a town to support the number of people rumored to run under the Van der Linde name, and they couldn’t have made it far loaded down with wagons. 

Therefore, he ended up in Rhodes. 

Specifically the saloon, after Sheriff Gray had ushered him out unceremoniously with the strangest look on his face, urging him not to worry about it, whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Hamish hadn’t been this far south in years, maybe decades. The sticky air made his skin crawl. Hell, this entire town made him feel nauseous and on-edge, as if everyone was watching his every move.

Maybe they were.

He hobbled up to the bar and ordered a drink— one in a long, unbroken chain that stretched all the way from O’Creagh’s Run. The place was quiet, but a few patrons buzzed about, all looking just about as beaten down as Hamish felt. Good company, then, if a little distant. They gawked at him from afar; hushed whispered about this newcomer that Hamish couldn't help but hear. Goddamn, he hated the south. 

“Rough day?”

Hamish didn’t bother to look up from his drink as a man sat beside him, ordering one for himself. _Slick_ , he thought upon hearing the man’s tone, _wanting_.

It took a moment for Hamish to realize he was specifically referring to the wide swatches of blood dried onto his shirt.

Arthur’s blood.

He drank.

“Rough _week,_ ” he mumbled, trying to bite back the burning tears.

“A sentiment I can commiserate with,” just like that, the sliminess in the man’s tone was gone, replaced with something tired, “Two more, please. On me. You look like you could use it.”

Hamish took the shot of whiskey from the bartender, finally sizing up his new drinking partner, surprised to find a man nearly as old as he was, if not older. He wore it well though, all clean-cut and pulled together. The very opposite of Hamish, who had found himself coated in a thick layer of grime, disheveled beyond recognition. 

“Hosea,” the man stuck out his hand in greeting, but Hamish didn’t take it, suddenly very aware of the blood somehow still caked under his fingernails. 

He drank, and ordered another.

“Hamish,” he offered, after a moment, “You… You from around here?” 

Hosea frowned slightly at that, “Something like that. I’m staying nearby.”

Hamish had met his kind before; the kind of man who oh-so-carefully chooses his words, not keen on revealing anything beyond a pre-fabricated image. It made his skin crawl, and yet there was something so wholly genuine about the man that he couldn’t bring himself to shoo him away. Maybe it was the free drinks. Maybe it was the heavy sorrow that sat just beneath his eyes. 

Whatever it was, Hamish recognized it in himself and took a chance. 

“Tell me, friend— you know anything about a gang of outlaws round these parts?”

Hosea's shoulders tensed ever so slightly, “A gang? Can’t say I do, unless you’re talking about them raiders. Why, you a lawman?”

Too smooth, too practiced. Hamish furrowed his brows and stared into his drink, newly refreshed.

“Not quite. Heard rumor them Van der Lindes were holed up around here someplace.” 

“Not that I’ve seen, but I tend to stay out of the seedier areas. What do you want with them?”

Hamish threw back his drink; Hosea hadn’t touched his, now intensely focused on him, despite his attempts to maintain a relaxed facade. Hamish sighed, a sound more akin to a sob than anything.

“One of them bastards killed my boy. Best… Best damn hunting companion I ever come across, and he went and shot him.”

“I’m… Sorry to hear that,” Hosea’s eyes narrowed, staring at the large, dark stains soaked into Hamish’s shirt, “Then this is…”

“It’s his.”

“I… I can’t imagine losing a son so… so suddenly.”

“Weren’t my son,” Hamish clutched tight at the shot glass in his hand, “… Was damn close to it, though.”

Hosea rested a gentle hand on Hamish’s shoulder, real and comforting. Whatever trepidation and suspicion the man had harbored moments before, it was gone, absent from that gesture. 

“Sounds like a son to me. I... Lost my wife years ago. Don’t nearly compare to a kid though, I-I don’t know what I would do if mine…" Hosea's face twisted something awful, just for a second, "It helps to talk, though. Keeps them alive, in some small way… I’ve got a friendly ear and deep pockets, if nothing else.”

Hamish drew in a breath and held it. Whether the words would come or not was a different issue altogether, but he owed it to Arthur to try. His lip quivered; he stilled it with a shot of whiskey.

“He… was a good man. Didn’t always seem to act like it, and didn’t… didn’t always think it. He didn’t—“ his voice broke. His eyes welled with tears anew, though he willed them to dry, “He didn’t deserve what he got. Not one bit of it.” 

There was more to say. So much to the man that if Hamish could only find the words might help impress upon his drinking partner the devastating severity of Arthur's death. He couldn't organize those thoughts into anything meaningful quite yet; only ceaseless thrums of love and loss.

Hosea hummed, finally sipping from his own drink before he asked:

“What was his name?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Remember that joke I made wayyy back when about Red Dead Hamish? This was that.
> 
> Then things went off the rails. 
> 
> A two-parter! 
> 
> This kicks off the alternate endings! Nothing from here on out is canon! Just me trying to break a few hearts ♡♡♡
> 
> See you on Thursday, darlins ;)


	9. Red Dead Veteran: II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Micah had come to O'Creagh's run with something else in mind entirely. Part 2.
> 
> TW: Major Character Death
> 
> An alternate way Undone might have ended. Takes place in chapter 12.

Hosea burst into camp with a furious roar, tears dried against his cheeks.

_“Micah!”_

As he thundered into the camp in a flurry of hoofbeats, Hamish trailed behind him, acutely aware of the stir they had created. The way they stared at him. At Odessa. Damn near everyone in the camp— at least twenty strong— had stopped what they were doing. Some laid hands on their guns; others simply watched. Hamish didn’t miss the way Odessa tossed her head and high-stepped, eager to see any familiar face. No time for reunions though; Hamish dismounted and followed closely behind Hosea, who immediately bee-lined for the most opulent tent in the camp, throwing open the canvas flaps and returning with a man kicking and squirming beneath the barrel of his gun.

“Hosea— what the hell is this? _What the hell is wrong with you?_ ” 

Hamish knew the face. He’d seen the posters. Van der Linde himself, a picture of confusion and raw anger. Imposing. Dangerous.

Though no match for the wrath of Hosea, it seemed.

“Is this him?”

The words were spat, cold and dripping with the dry rage that burned through him. He threw the bastard to the ground in front of Hamish. The rat sniveled, he pleaded, he demanded to know what was going on, but his words all died when he fell at Hamish’s feet. For a moment, they simply stared at one another. 

Micah’s mouth fell open. 

And Hamish’s face twisted.

“That’s him.”

Hosea shot him in the head. Executed him, unceremoniously, without a thought.

And then again.

And again.

And again

Until Micah was nothing more than a stain in the grass, and Hosea’s gun was empty, wavering in his trembling grasp. For a moment, Hamish felt nothing beyond seething envy; he should've been the one to put the bastard down. He had words planned out that now simply took up space in his head. But what's done is done.

Van der Lined surged forward, grabbing the gun from Hosea, wrenching it free with no small amount of confusion plastered across his face. No one else moved. 

“Hosea, what the fuck are you doing?! You— _Who the hell is this_ —“

“Arthur’s dead,” Hosea’s voice was a scant, hardly a whisper, but it was more than enough. A deadly hush fell over the camp. 

“… What?”

“Micah killed him, Dutch,” Hosea sobbed, falling into Dutch’s chest, breath ragged and short, “He-he shot… our boy…”

Hamish’s breath shuddered at the scene, suddenly feeling invasive. He had stepped into Arthur's life, disrupted a family he knew nothing of, an intruder in a place he was never meant to see. He gently called Odessa closer, pulling Arthur’s hat from her saddlebags.

And he approached the pair of outlaws. 

“It was quick,” Hamish offered, voice too weak and small for his own good, further broken down by the sheer devastation on the faces of men who, not seconds ago, looked dangerous and untouchable, “I—“ he handed the hat to Dutch, who numbly ran his finger along the second little hole burned through the leather, “I buried him proper. Up near O’Creagh’s run. If you ever want to… Got his things there, too, if…” 

Dutch simply stared at the hat in his hands, the dark leather only darkened by blood.

Hamish left, and Odessa followed.   
  
  
  


It had been nearly a month since—

since.

Hamish still couldn’t look out his front door, too afraid to see the stains in the grass. They’d been long since washed away by rain, but he didn’t want to risk it. Couldn’t risk it. 

He hadn’t gone out, other than to visit Arthur and care for Buell and Odessa. They’d found a happy routine, a way to push through each day. It didn’t hurt any less, but he grew better accustomed to the pain and the eerie silence of O’Creagh’s run.

A silence broken by a knock at the very door he’d worked so hard to avoid.

He opened it, cringing at the way it groaned and pointedly keeping his gaze away from the dock, to find Hosea. His eyes were rimmed with red and puffy, his face swollen and caked with tears, but he still wore a polite smile. He looked so… tired. So exhausted, the kind a man can't recover from. Hamish wondered if he looked the same.

“I uh…” Hosea started, “… Dutch is still talking to Arthur. I figured he’ll be a while yet, and I wanted to… to thank you. It’s a… you picked a beautiful spot.”

“He would have done the same for me. How have you been?”

Hosea nodded to himself, as if sorting through the words. Odessa nosed at him expectantly, pushing her muzzle into Hosea’s shoulder. He patted her on the neck, just the way she’d always liked.

“I don’t think we’re going to recover. The gang, that is. I think… I think this is too much, even for us. Folks have all gone off, scared or sad, and Dutch is… but I think... Maybe it’s what Arthur would have wanted.”

“Even after… all that had happened, he just wanted to set things right, ” Hamish offered after a moment, “He really did love you all.”

At this, Hosea’s face melted into something fond, “That he did.”

A warm, gentle quiet settled between them, like the smallest ray of summer sunshine. If they tried hard enough in that fleeting moment, they could almost pretend Arthur was right there with them.

Almost. 

“Do you uh… you want some coffee?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hosea and Hamish would have been good friends, I think ♡ 
> 
> Y'all I wrote this one WAY back, shortly after posting chapter 12, and I've been sitting on it ever since. Hopefully it was worth it! 
> 
> Love you my dears! See you on Sunday! ♡♡♡


	10. Lupine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles was successful in finding Arthur. 
> 
> An alternate ending to chapter 15.
> 
> [TW: Major Character Death, descriptions of death and dead bodies]

Charles found him a few days later.

Or so he assumed by the state of his body. He was honestly surprised to have found anything at all, given the abundance of scavengers that made their home in Big Valley. Arthur was intact— mostly. Surrounded by O’Driscoll bodies as he was, it was clear Arthur hadn’t gone down without a fight. Charles assumed it was these same O’Driscolls that had taken a shotgun and opened Arthur’s chest.

He couldn’t care less about them though. Any other day, he’d recognize the need to mourn over any human life lost; the need to empathize with any man left where he lay to rot and fester alone. But today, these weren’t men. These were the bastards that killed Arthur, and they were more than deserving of every maggot, beetle, and roach that decided to feast upon them.

He wiped the tears from his cheeks and steeled his nerves; there would be time for crying later— time for apologies. 

For now, he wrapped Arthur carefully in the blanket he kept on Taima.

The man had been there long enough to lose the stiffness of the freshly dead; the cold air of Big Valley had served him well. Charles had moved bodies in worse conditions before; the sensation still fresh in his hands as though it were only yesterday. He supposed Arthur would have wanted it this way— to be less of a burden, to keep some dignity even in death. 

Charles couldn’t take him back to camp, not such a long way with the weather warming as it was... but Arthur probably wouldn’t have wanted that either. Someplace he could watch the sunset, Arthur had said once, so that’s what Charles did. 

He buried Arthur on a small ridge overlooking Big Valley. He was careful to replace the lupine that had grown there; he’d return later to mark the spot properly. 

Charles’s return to camp was met with little fanfare. The gang was divided, tense; ready to fracture at a moment's notice. In his absence, things had continued to deteriorate. A dangerous air had settled over them, one he was hesitant to disrupt. 

He laid a hand on John’s shoulder as he stalked through camp, a morose expression heavy on his features. 

“Get packed,” he said simply, hardly breaking his stride, “This is over.”

With a deep breath, he pushed into Dutch’s tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my frosty little snowflakes! Charles comes in clutch yet again, giving our boy the respect he deserves and taking care of John! 
> 
> We stan a legend, folks. ♡
> 
> This is just about over- see you on Thursday for the last of my little oneshots (for now, at least!)
> 
> Love you ♡♡♡


	11. Seconds, Counting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternate look at the final confrontation.
> 
> [TW: Major Character Death, animal attack]

He could hear Micah’s voice carry across the cliffside and the vitriol he felt only grew more potent as he slowly made out each and every awful word. That hatred brought with it the most potent nausea Dutch had known in years. 

He drew up to the small cabin in a flurry of hooves and steel to see Odessa collapsed in the sand, a bullet in her neck, unmoving, and Micah sat atop Arthur.

Micah, prying open Arthur’s jaw with his grubby fingers.

Micah shoving the barrel of his gun into Arthur’s mouth.

Micah fingering at the trigger.

Micah—

Dutch’s ears buzzed. The world around him bathed in white as a downpour of nasty memories consumed him for a moment.

Before he had even realized, a dull pop echoed through New Austin. 

His stomach dropped. 

Arthur dropped. Limp, flat on his back in the dirt, unmoving. 

Micah stood, dusting off his pants with a sneer. For good measure, he turned and spat, offering a hearty ‘fuck you’ in place of a eulogy.  Dutch didn’t hear it though. No, Dutch simply stood, stock still, staring at the scene before him, unable, or unwilling, to react.  He was too slow. If he’d only moved faster, if he’d only pushed harder, if he’d only—

A thousands ‘if’s’ would do nothing for him now. They’d do nothing for Arthur. Dutch stumbled, numb, across the landscape, unsure of when exactly he’d drawn in quite so close. 

His presence startled Micah, who immediately took to blabbering endlessly about how he’d tried to stop him; how he _tried_ to get the gun away from Arthur but simply couldn’t do it. How sorry he was, how he wished things were different, and how very much he so _loved_ Arthur. Like a brother, he kept repeating, _like a brother._

Dutch didn’t hear any of that though, falling to his knees next to his son, who lay empty, bleeding in the desert. His son who had died alone, and scared, pinned in Micah’s slimy grasp, thinking himself unloved. He took gentle hold of Arthur’s face, willing the man to take a breath, to move, to prove to Dutch that this was nothing but a vile, wretched nightmare that he’d startle awake from at any moment.

But Arthur stayed dead, even as Dutch whispered into his hairline all the things he'd never had the stomach to say before. Apologies he hadn't been brave enough to make. Promises he'd never get to keep. 

“Always knew he was weak, Dutch…” Micah laid a hand on Dutch’s shoulder, his touch vile and unwelcome, “Leave the cleanup to me, I’ll see to it Morgan gets buried good and proper. You go have a drink.”

In the next moment, Dutch had tackled Micah to the ground, hands wrapped tight around the bastard’s throat. Micah kicked and clawed and writhed and bucked beneath him, but Dutch held firm.  He raised a fist and drove it hard into Micah’s face again, and again, and again, until the man fell limp beneath him.  He wouldn’t stay that way for long. Dutch wouldn’t let it end quite so easily, not with the emptiness that now festered inside of him. 

Micah awoke hours later in the dead of night, tightly wound in rope, somewhere in the vast desert.

He tried to holler, but his cries were muffled by the gag shoved into his mouth.

If he strained his eyes against the thick dark of the desert night, he could just barely make out the white of Dutch’s sleeves, sitting a few feet away.

Dutch didn’t so much as look in his direction, too busy sharpening his hunting knife. In the distance, the yipping of coyotes dragged Micah’s attention. A cold sweat ran down his face.

He whimpered again; a plea for mercy that went unheard. 

Wordlessly, with a look in his eye that surely would have made a lesser man drop dead on the spot, Dutch stood, knife in hand, and stalked closer. He kicked Micah onto his back before dragging the sharpened edge down Micah’s chest. Blood welled immediately. Micah spit curses into the fabric that kept him quiet; Dutch remained unperturbed.

The cries of coyotes drew closer. 

Dutch locked eyes with Micah for but a moment before leaving to perch upon a nearby cliff. From there he could watch every moment of—

Of—

Micah wasn’t quite sure, because surely Dutch wasn’t fixing to—

He heard the padding of paws against the sand before he saw it. A single coyote, experimentally snuffling his foot. It shrunk back when Micah attempted to lash out, but his bindings kept him in place. 

His shrieks grew only more desperate, more frantic.

A second coyote. A third. Coyotes were cowards though; they didn’t tend to approach people, much less harm them.

But the nights were cold, and food was scarce. 

Teeth sunk into his leg. Mere seconds before the next.

His screams were absorbed into the gag as the pack, nearly ten strong, tore into him. 

Dutch simply watched, barely satisfied as the rat was disemboweled and strewn across the desert.  He held Arthur’s hat in his hands, running the brim through his fingers. He’d buried Arthur with Odessa; the horse would only have suffered if he hadn’t put her down. Their shared grave was scarcely marked. He’d craft a proper memorial when he had chased the numbness from his hands. They faced west, the both of them, left to watch the sunrise together each morning. It was the least he could do.

Dutch would sit there until morning rose again and a little longer still, wholly unsatisfied, as he had grown to expect. Vengeance never was as sweet as it sounded, and no matter how horribly Micah had died, no matter how many pieces the man was in, Arthur was still gone.

And Dutch still had to tell Hosea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for Overdone for now! Hopefully I haven't bored you all too much! ♡ Now I've gotta get cracking on the sequel! Thank you all for sticking around! See you soon, lovelies! ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡


End file.
